Corners

There are still days I find my way 

to the corner of my ache, 

curl around your memory, 

and fill an old grief with fresh tears. 

Days when nostalgia is an echo 

calling from red canyon cliffs 

and dreams fold familiar 

fingers around mine 

as I search for a handhold. 

A ghostly apparition of virga

is a caliginous curtain 

in the gathering storm

and when thunder shudders 

through my pane, the flicker

in my pulse reminds me

I still search for you 

between bolts. 

Laurel 

Dec. 23, 2023

Hangover

last night's vodka 

fogs my tongue 

as the words he pierced 

into my heart

form a storm front, 

press against temple walls 

until they tear through ducts.

the aspens in my dream 

have shivered all their gold 

away, and my eyes open 

to high desert and dusty 

sagebrush littered with 

ticks and dust devils.

Reverie

Rising day wraps aspen in mist

drifting off the hot spring 

pooled in a circle of rocks.

Pine and sage perfume the dawning; 

follow where I have journeyed 

to the water's edge 

disturbing a pair of carrion.

Earth is forgiving beneath bare feet

here in the fold of grounded fog,

so I sit, hands cupped in my lap

like an empty boat between my thighs

and contemplate crows. 

Washing the wall

This morning

I finally washed that wall

The one in the bedroom

He smashed his drink against.

I wiped out the streaks

The tear stains in the gray.

I am not sure why it took so long.

Perhaps I needed the reminder?

But a year is long enough 

To watch my wall weep.

Laurel

Oct. 17, 2022

sage caves

Ah...this desert...she is easy to admire from afar, but to truly love her, you have to risk a walk with her roughness, learn to navigate around the edges of her eruptions. You will need to drop into her darkness, lose yourself amongst her ice altars and befriend her demons. You will be required to emerge from her brooding disquiet and still find her beautiful.

Cliff Lake

Morning is a trio of blue herons flying low above the emerald pools, their rattling cries echoing high in the rocky cliffs. Two bald eagles perch high in a pine across the lake, exchanging low, throaty greetings and chattery calls. A lone bat scoops one last gnat off the placid face of the water as dragonflies rise to take on the chase among the tall grasses and lakeside willows. A pair of green darners tangle in the air above my head, whirring furiously, their wings click and their bodies lock as they spin earthward. My red prijon stretches lazily at the waters edge, her stern nosing gently into the lake while her bow firmly grasps the land. And a cup of coffee from the jet boil warms my hands as the sun saunters into the sky dressed in apricot and violet.

Rewarming

Take my hands
if you can bear the chill
for I have tucked them
tightly in crossed arms
but still my body shivers

read my palm, the line
that refused to rise,
and tell me if you see
what I already know

my heart line is the constant
master of my head line
my life line is splintered
frayed across my palm

draw your finger through
the furrows, where the fragrance
of forget-me-not still lingers,
warm peaches and mandarin
that leaves a bitter bite

chart a course around each callous
like a brand new journey
on a worn out map and leave
a trail of silver pennies
a shining path on moonless night

whisper encouragement
like kisses on my fingertips
until the blood rush
gives them warmth

and when I can bear them
when the bite of frost
has at last released
Take my hands

Laurel
Sept. 14, 2022

Effervescent

September 25, 2022, 5:30 a.m.

I make my way to the hot spring and immerse myself in the healing waters.
Overhead, Taurus shines bright in the still black sky, standing guard between Orion’s notched arrow and the daughters of Atlas.
Mars has shifted and now rests above the tip of the bow, a burning ember eye watching the brilliant constellations.

Leaning against the rocks edging the water, I wait.
I watch them fade as rising day flannels the sky behind me with soft grays and pinks.
I wait, and I listen as bubbles rise from the hot spring source, a constant, soft-sizzle as they break the surface tension in the stillness…
irrepressible effervescence.

flame skimmer

Storm over Grand Junction

I cannot find it in me to relinquish that weekend: The sun setting my arrival in Grand Junction, the virga gray over Grand Mesa lit by drifting rays, and the splinter of light slicing a bit of rainbow.

It is beyond me to forsake the desert; all her reds and golds bowled by Books, and Monuments, and Grand Mesa... how does one abandon Grand Mesa? Where evergreens and volcanic rock skirt a hundred lakes and aspen groves applaud the wind that conducts afternoon lightning shows, thunder echoed in their clap.

Where Saturday night, when the tent was pitched next to a single, white columbine, the rain came, and we escaped the downpour by sitting in the cab of your Ranger sipping Knob Creek and interrupting the chatter of rain, then hail, then rain punctuated by booming expiations. And then afterward, when the fire was blazing down to cooking coals, we filled time drunk and tented away.

How does one obliterate this beauty? I cannot omit the Sunday night storm approaching from the east as the sun set behind us in the west. The wonder of sitting in the Colorado National Monument under a shelter overlooking Book Cliffs; watching rainbows rise from the valley where Independence stands red and resolute in the dusk of day. The lightning cutting caliginous curtains and swells of thunder rolling up the valley to wash over us in undulating repercussions.  

If I could define this missing, if I could write it out, perhaps he would understand storm-spilled tears and forgive the fingers that still reach to touch cascades of rain and reserve the surge of cloudbursts. Perchance he could comprehend why my upturned face still seeks the kiss that mists rainbows across my lips. But I cannot put the chill of Colorado summer rain against his skin or impress upon him the icy drops that soaked your hair and trickled through your beard. He cannot hold the weight of Colorado rain in the cup of his hands.

Seeking after that sweet golden clime*

Nothing fills the chasm of your absence
like the crest of a wind swept summit
the arm of summer warm on my shoulders
and the craggy echo of September sun
reflected in the face of a placid lake

*with a nod to William Blake

she brings me dragonflies (for Aysia)

with wide eyes, wonder-full
and outstretched arms

she comes to me

I have a gift for you
something I found

delicate hands lift
the jarred amber insect
      
vellum wings gravely
drawn under its body

perfectly still

Poet’s Lament

what courage, to sacrifice essence

on the altar of misconception

to those who may not know

enough to plunge the knife

when I lie on these stones

when darkness draws 

me into his arms 

I do not mind the quiet

*Seeking after that sweet golden clime

nothing fills the chasm of your absence like a wind swept summit and the arm of summer across my shoulders
*with a nod to William Blake

The Hard Fall

October weight settles on maples
in thick wet mounds that bend
branches until they rip
away from limbs.

Power lines bow and bounce
beneath white as it slips
off in long, crashing dashes
and a citywide blackout
brings traffic to a freeze.

I’ve pushed the bed
against the window
and lie pillowed in the frame
watching early snow
frock my backyard.

As beautiful as it comes,
I know this kind of falling
soaks through carefully worn
layers and leaves a bitter chill.

Misplaced Mountain Laurel

I don’t think I should be here
among the star gazers and velvet
tongued empresses, I am awkward

petals and stiff limbs, my leaves
do not fade and fall, I am never reborn
nor do I return to earth to poke
my way into warmth. Snow settles

on my evergreen sleep, wind rattles
through branches that do not bare.
Yet every summer, when the sun
moves away, pink and white

blossoms remind me I am
more than just a shrub.

The stars are getting high

Ketchum smoke hangs
fog-like, ghosts the limestone
cliffs and mountain mahogany
of Pass Creek Canyon.

I’ve scrambled up to peek
in the small mouth of a cave
above camp and hiked
among pines to taste afternoon
warmth. In the tent, kids
cocoon in hard-play sleep
and blue nylon bags.

Firelight licks the Merlot
in my plastic cup as the haze
lifts and I see Orion’s belt
span a dark delta. The air
is clearing as if zodiacs are
inhaling the burning grass.

Summer Solstice

It’s 4 a.m. and sunlit
grass bobs in the breeze,
tall and summer heavy
where we sprawl,
almost touching.

A masked waxwing darts
through quaking aspen,
chirping as he flits away
on crimson-dipped flight.

Cicada tymbals chatter,
and our laughter
gurgles spring-like
as your gaze reflects
the opulent caramel
of Tiger’s Eye.

And though I am afraid
of waking, I lean
across to kiss you.

closing the miles between

I can’t look at mountains
without wanting you
trekking ahead of me,

leading me to summits
I would not explore alone,
taking me to a world
where only you and I

see the vastness of time
rise to touch eternity
as history spreads
in peaks and valleys.

Western clouds gather
to rumble and spill.
How many thunderstorms
will resound through my pane

with flashes of light
and tremulous echoes
before my heart stops
waiting for you?

Petticoat Peak

A wooden frame stands
on her rocky top
time-gray and warped.
Rusted penny nails hold
cracked boards carved
with names and years
as far away as 1919.

To the east, Salt River’s
snowy peaks are prairie points
binding ground blocks;
fresh plowed brown
and new-growth green
quilted by pivots and roads.

Below us, a dust devil
curls a dirty column
from exposed soil,
winds into oblivion
on a grass border.

Westward, mountain tops
fan across Earth's palm
like a hand of cards
dealt for play and cool
breezes venture fragrant
offerings of sage across
the windswept ridges
of Fish Creek Range.